


Nothing Can Cure the Soul (but the senses)

by Tilion



Category: Dorian Gray (2009), The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Basil Hallward deserved better, Character Study, Fix-It, I would murder lord henry with my bare hands, Introspection, M/M, Self-Reflection, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, say it with me folks:, sorta?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:33:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tilion/pseuds/Tilion
Summary: Basil Hallward dies in the attic that fateful night.He wakes up in his painting studio, eighteen years ago.
Relationships: Basil Hallward & Sibyl Vane, Dorian Gray & Basil Hallward, Dorian Gray & Basil Hallward & Henry Wotton, Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68





	1. In Which a Very Strange Phenomenon Occurs for Which the Author Provides Absolutely No Explanation

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely an excuse for me to give Basil some happiness and Dorian a second chance. One deserves it; the other does not.  
> Oh, and also to hate on Lord FUCKING Henry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basil wakes to find himself in a very different place, in a very different time.

Basil Hallward is dead.

Or at least, he is dying—and he thinks, as the echoed spatter of blood shimmers behind his closed eyelids, that the pain lies not in the fall, but in the landing. He is dying, yes, but that is not the source of his pain.

He is dying, and Dorian holds the knife.

He wonders, vaguely, what would have happened had he done something else. Refused to enter the room with Dorian, or tried harder to make him see reason, or perhaps even run—but no, he could never run, not even if he tried. Not even if Dorian made no move to chase him.

Basil Hallward is dying.

He does not have time for any last thought, or at least not in the commonly accepted sense of it, unless one counts the image that flashes in his fading mind's eye—Dorian, sweet beautiful Dorian, with his golden hair and his sculpted features, his perfect lips parted slightly in a bashful smile. A smile that widens, to reveal the teeth of a rotting skull—the scarred and grayish skin of a corpse, the cruel eyes of a monster.

The two Dorians linger, and he feels the pain drain from him, the sensation of his own blood on his back trickle away.

Pause.

Breathe.

Flip backwards; repeat.

Basil Hallward is dead.

Or he thinks he is, until he wakes with a start to the warm press of fingers against his forehead, and the soft call of his name.

"Basil?" says the voice, only it can't be, it surely must be impossible, for it holds none of the fury, the spite, the weight of years accumulated behind a mask. "Basil, my friend, you are awake! Thank God; I feared I might never hear your voice again! Tell me, how do you feel?"

He blinks, and the face comes into view; perfect as always, with only a single lock of gold-spun hair astray, and pure concern in those glimmering eyes.

"Dorian?" he rasps.

The young man in question breaks out into a smile, and he cannot help the twist in his chest at the sight. Such a marker of innocence—but he knows Dorian's innocence is a farce, and now the haze of confusion is thick in his mind, unwieldy. 

"Basil, my dear, can you stand? You were only out for a scant few minutes, but I fear you may be growing ill." There is no underlying current of malice, only concern.

He stumbles to his feet. Dorian braces his shoulder with one arm, and he flinches instinctively, reminded of the attic—Dorian, the painting, and the knife that had come out of nowhere—

But he is not in the attic. He looks around, and recognizes his own studio, in perfect replica of years before— _many_ years before. 

Just as Dorian is. Not a hollow mask, a desperate cling to physical youth; this, he realizes, is Dorian before his fall, Dorian before . . . 

The painting. He whips around, nearly falls again on the sofa he'd collapsed against. There, across the room, is the painting, resting serenely on a wooden easel with his paints scattered around it; half-finished, but still encapsulating Dorian in all his glowing beauty, his curves and lines and angles.

"What . . . happened?" he manages. 

Dorian shakes his head. A faint crease appears between his brows, but vanishes quickly. "You fainted, Basil. Mid-stroke, although your painting seems unharmed."

 _So much the worse,_ he thinks gravely, but does not voice the thought. "I am quite all right now," he says, unsteadily, but Dorian does not release his grip on him, as though afraid he might shatter to pieces like a fragile work of glass. Perhaps he will. "But I . . . I do not think I can bring myself to paint any longer today."

"I understand," Dorian assures him. "Another time. Shall we call Parker and have him prepare you some tea? I do hope you aren't ill."

"I only need rest, Dorian." The lie trips its way up his throat, and tastes heavy and bitter between his teeth. 

Basil Hallward does not only need rest.

Basil Hallward is dead.

And he has, he realizes, glancing out the window at the softly swaying roses, the glimmer of the sun so familiar, and yet so foreign—he has, somehow, slipped backwards in time. 


	2. Can You Tell I Haven't Read This Book in Months??

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basil attempts to come to terms with whatever this do-over version of his life may hold. Enter: Lord Henry Wotton.

He is almost certain that he is not losing his mind. Every detail of the world, every ray of sunshine and veins on the petals of a flower—everything is sharp and crystal clear. And Dorian is . . . _Dorian,_ and it tugs at the strings of his heart with a throbbing ache to look at him. Dorian, his Dorian, the real young man he once was, before his mind and heart and soul were engulfed in the shadows of sin.

His own body is foreign to him now, fresh and younger as it once was. He expects the ache of joints, the crack of bone when he stands up too quickly, and receives none of it; the creases in the corners of his eyes are smaller, less noticeable.

He relearns his body.

He paints.

He does not work on the picture of Dorian; he fears it now, knows what it will become if he finishes it. He does his best to sketch angels, saints, old gods, and yet they all turn out with Dorian's face; he throws them out.

He paints his gardens, paints the sunset.

He cannot paint Dorian. He knows what will happen if he does.

But the younger man is . . . persistent. Despite his apparent annoyance with actually _sitting_ for Basil, he needles him almost constantly, to the point where he cannot step into the same room as him without an instant demand about the painting.

This is, Basil thinks, a second chance. A chance to . . . fix everything. 

He whispers his silent thanks to whatever God, or whatever fluke of the universe, sent him back. He mouths his silent questions: _What shall I do?_

In the end, he finishes the painting.

He wants, selfishly, to spend time with Dorian, to hear the peal of his laughter. To avoid the cold confusion, the constant begging to _paint it, Basil, please, I swear I'll sit still!_

He will keep Lord Henry away from him, he decides—for it was Henry's influence that tainted Dorian, ruined him slowly over the years, he is sure of it. The painting will remain a painting as long as Henry and Dorian never meet.

Of course, fate plays him a cruel hand.

On the day he remembers their first meeting, he successfully convinces Henry to meet up another time. For several more weeks, then, Dorian Gray remains unaware of the existence of Lord Henry Wotton—but Lord Henry Wotton, having been subject to Basil's near-constant gushing about the young man in the past, is fully aware of Dorian Gray.

"He is something of a shy man," he deflects, when Henry asks to meet him at last, or, "He is occupied presently."

"My dear Basil, if he has time enough to see you, surely he would not object to a short introduction."

"Another time, perhaps."

Basil knows he cannot keep up this dance for long.

He is right.

Summer has not yet loosened its grasp on the sun-streaked skies when Basil Hallward comes upon the two of them in his garden, conversing over a flower bush. He swallows, and watches for a moment, uneasy, unsure; nothing _feels_ different, but he has the sinking suspicion that all may go to ruin, that all may now rest on his shoulders, on what he does next.

Henry notices him, and turns; the smile that flickers across his face is not malicious, per se, but a certain touch of triumph gleams in his eyes. "Ah, Basil; Mr. Gray and I were just becoming acquainted. So this is the man I've heard so much about."

"Yes," he says, carefully, "this is Dorian Gray."

"Call me Dorian," the man in question interjects. "Formalities are a bore."

Henry smiles again. "On that, we agree. Really, Basil, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to keep me from ever meeting your friend here—but no matter, we have met now."

"Yes," he echoes, "you have."

"I came to inquire after you, Basil, but it seems I was not alone in this endeavor." Dorian tips his head, and the dying summer sun casts its glow over his features, shining through the faint curtain of his hair. "And now that we are all friends, why don't we take a walk together?"

He wavers, but nods. If he cannot keep Henry away from Dorian, he can at least ensure that the two of them spend as little time alone together as possible.

"Harry has been telling me about himself," Dorian explains, turning so he can face Basil as he speaks. His feet trip along the path backwards, and he lets his fingertips brush across velvety-soft petals with an air of nonchalance that makes Basil's heart twist. 

He so often forgets how different Dorian is now. How much lighter, the curve of his spine unweighted by years of sins unspoken. How careless, in a way infuriatingly endearing rather than simply infuriating.

"And what has he been telling you?" Basil manages.

A soft, short laugh from Henry. "Do not worry, Basil, I have entrusted your young friend here with no more secrets than I have given you. Secrets, after all, are something to be doled out with caution, or all the fun is positively spoiled."

"They are called secrets for a reason," Dorian agrees. "But enough talk of secrecy! I'm growing bored. Basil, when must I next sit for you?"

"You seem awfully eager for someone with such an attention span as you," Basil laughs.

He pouts, and it only makes him look more angelic, with petals caught between his ivory fingers and the blush of summer evening on his cheeks. "You wound me," he cries, placing on hand on his heart in a theatrical manner, "truly, Basil, you do."

"Oh, you know I mean no insult." Were they alone, he might have dared to reach out, to link his arm with the younger man's, but Henry's presence prickles at the back of his neck like a soft gray fog on a winter night. "Whenever you are free, I suppose."

"I'm free _now_ ," he offers. "And you said you were almost finished; it can't take too long."

Basil hesitates. "You forget, you are not my only guest today."

"By all means, do not feel pressured on my account," Lord Henry interjects. "I don't mind if you paint him while I am here."

"It's different when someone else is there," he tries, vainly, to explain, but Henry brushes him off.

"It cannot be too difficult. Come, Basil, let us all three go to your studio, and Dorian can sit for you."

Unable to provide a decent excuse, he turns back toward the house in silence, and trails behind the other two, who strike up their earlier conversation with enthusiasm—or at least, on Dorian's part; Henry shows about as much enthusiasm as Basil believes him capable. Their words slip past his ears like leaves on a crisp wind; it is nothing he has not heard before, and nothing he could really stop.

Why, he thinks, vaguely, can he not bring himself to stop painting the portrait?

 _Because Dorian wants you to_ , murmurs a quiet voice in the back of his head, _and you cannot say no to Dorian; you never could._

A soft peal of laughter echoes back toward him; he glances up, and Dorian has his head thrown back in some expression of blissful amusement; his eyes sparkle, the curves of his lips like those of a finely carved statue. 

For this Dorian, the Dorian whose heart is open and warm and whose eyes gleam with wonder at every facet of the universe—

For this Dorian, Basil thinks, he must save them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to write Henry ajdhjfkwnkbhvwjarg


	3. Aha, Something Vaguely Pertaining to Canon!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basil finishes the painting. Dorian broods.

"You are so very distant when you paint, Basil."

He makes a soft sound in his throat, and does not look up, but catches the movement of Dorian's head shifting ever so slightly, the golden afternoon light catching in its gossamer strands. "See? You are so distant, you haven't the faintest idea what I said."

"I heard you," Basil protests, half-heartedly. "Do not move like that; I am almost finished, and I would hate to ruin it now."

Dorian sighs, but acquiesces, tilting his head back to its initial position. "How much longer, do you think?"

"I should finish today, if you cooperate."

"I always cooperate."

He cannot help the snatch of laughter that escapes his lips. "That is a filthy lie and we both know it."

Dorian gives him a look, wide blue eyes framed by gold-spun lashes. "I'll behave," he promises.

Basil returns to his work, one hand hovered just above his ear to catch the inevitable lock of brown hair that always seems to fall in his eyes. His other hand flicks his brush across the canvas—finishing touches, glints of light, murmurs of shadow. If there are any noticeable differences between this portrait and the last, he cannot tell; he has considered, briefly, marring the portrait so as to dissuade Dorian from becoming so infatuated with it, but could not bear to do so. It would be an insult to Dorian, and to himself.

He glances between Dorian and the painting. The former sits restless, blinking too quickly, with the occasional half-smile directed at Basil; the latter gazes out at him with soft pale eyes, unmarred, untouched. 

But he knows what will happen to it. He knows—

Basil bites his lip.

If he finishes the painting today, in Henry's absence, there will be no need for him to ever see the portrait at all, no need for him to plant his seed of cynicism and destruction in Dorian's impressionable mind. 

He works in silence, and Dorian follows his lead.

At last he steps back; his hand drifts automatically to his mouth, knuckles brushing his lips, the flicker of his brush soft against his throat. He can feel Dorian's gaze on him, heavy, curious—"Is it finished?" he asks, softly.

And he says, "Yes."

Its errors glimmer in his eyes; a too-dark shadow beneath the jaw, a slight twitch of a finger drawn too long. It is a masterpiece, he thinks, maybe, but in no way it is perfect, even further than the first portrait was; but it is Dorian, and it is beautiful.

He lets the brush slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor.

Dorian swoops from his stool to snatch up the brush; when he glances up, offering it to Basil, pieces of his carefully styled golden hair slip across his face. Their fingers brush.

"Thank you," Basil murmurs, and then: "you have paint on your arm." A smudge of soft gray, across the pale narrow curve of Dorian's wrist.

Dorian barely even glances at it. "So do you," he says. "May I see it?"

He makes a vague gesture of consent. Dorian steps around the easel, and Basil watches not the painting but him, the slow creep of ecstasy that steals across his perfect features, spreads until it reaches his eyes with a gleam that makes him catch his breath.

"Oh, Basil," Dorian breathes, and the glimmer of tears prick his eyes. "Truly you have outdone yourself."

"You. . . are crying." Basil reaches out as though to touch his shoulder, but pauses.

He blinks. A single, elegant finger reaches up, to brush the porcelain skin beneath his eyes. It comes away touched with silver, like the drip of morning dew on the delicate petal of a flower. "So I am."

He recognizes the look in Dorian's eyes, the dawning realization of his own beauty—of course he knew he was beautiful, but now, now that Basil has immortalized it in a tiny sliver of time—

Now, his features harden with the knowledge of their short-livedness, and Basil says, anxiously, "What do you think of it?"

Dorian spins around, and he almost physically steps back at the emotions written across his face, plain as the colors of his painting, and yet he cannot seem to read a single one of them. "Oh, Basil, I love it, really I do," he cries, and crosses the room to fling himself upon the nearby sofa, as though wrestling with some internal war. "Do not misunderstand me, my friend, only I am overcome by . . ." He pauses. 

"Dorian?" he prompts.

The younger man looks up, and bites his lower lip, slowly. "Do you know what Harry said to me, the other day?"

Basil hesitates. "What did he say?"

"He said, 'youth is the one thing worth having.'" 

"And do you believe him?"

It is a dangerous line he walks now, with the bewildered young man flung across the sofa before him, and the encapsulation of all his troubles displayed on the easel in all its beauty. Dorian's eyes flicker between Basil and the painting until he admits, "I don't know. Surely it can't be, and yet—and yet I do terribly fear growing old. It seems a nightmare to turn gray, and sad, and wrinkled—do you know, Basil, I think I do love your painting, but I am terribly jealous of it."

"Oh!" cried the painter, with growing desperation, "don't be."

"But I cannot help it," Dorian insists, lifting his head. "I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. Your painting will remain young and I will not—oh, I would give anything for it to be the other way. I would give my s—"

His words cut off abruptly as Basil lunges across the room and covers his mouth, strangling the sentence before it can end. They struggle for a moment, Dorian tugging at the fingers pressed firmly over his mouth indignantly, until at last Basil releases him.

"Really, Basil," he exclaims, crossly, "what on earth has gotten into you?"

"I'm sorry, my dear," he pants, "but you mustn't say such things. You are fairer than the portrait—fairer than anything on this world."

It is the wrong thing to say. Dorian buries his face in the painter's chest, and his words are muffled as he gasps, "For now! For now, Basil, until my youth is gone, and then you will not think me fair at all."

"I will always think you fair," he argues, and behind his back, reaches toward his supplies: the arrangement of brushes, the haphazard collection of paints in their little tin pots . . . and the thin palette knife, resting atop a tin of white paint.

"Not when I am old and ugly and awful to look at." Dorian sighs against him. Warm breath curls up to caress his face, smelling of the lilacs in his garden that Dorian so loves to gather. "But your painting shall keep what I must lose."

"Dorian, really, now you are being ridiculous," Basil protests. A sense of deja vu, vicious and violent, rises in the back of his mind; surely they have had this conversation before. 

He has made a mistake in finishing the portrait; he should have burned it, burned it and spurned Lord Henry from ever speaking to Dorian again.

"Dorian," he says, more gently, and tips up the youth's head. Beneath his fingers, the smooth, sharp jaw glistens with tears, and the perfect mouth trembles slightly. "No matter how you look, I will always prefer you to your portrait. You are my . . ." He sucks in a breath. "My. . . _friend_ , and you are filled with such wonder and curiosity; every time you speak, every breath you take, I am in awe of you. I implore you, do not debase yourself to your outward beauty."

Dorian gazes at him, silent, unsure.

His fingers tighten around the hilt of the knife. He turns, slightly, and makes to slash at the painting—

A hand meets his wrist midair, shockingly strong for its delicate appearance, and he turns to see Dorian half-flung across the room, panting again, a look of wild despair in his eyes. "Do not destroy it," he cries, "for it would be murder to kill something I love so dearly. I beseech you, Basil, leave it be."

Slowly, he lowers the knife.

He remembers this, if not in detail, then in slight, disconnected patches of memory. His halfhearted attempt to destroy his own masterpiece, and Dorian's insistence that he stop.

And Basil thinks, with a stirring sense of dread, that this is the beginning of the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lines that are stolen directly from the original book: "Youth is the one thing worth having" and "I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die"  
> So, uhh.  
> Thoughts? I'm very conflicted and insecure about this particular fic


	4. In Which Everything Is Okay (Don't Worry, It Doesn't Last)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Basil's turn to brood, and Dorian's to comfort. It is somewhat successful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much dialogue, so little plot. The classic authors of old smile down upon me.

Basil has never been particularly inclined to believe in the existence of a God; as an artist, his faith lies in the beauty of the world, the soft trace of veins through a flower petal, the sigh of the wind on a summer's evening. Still, as it is, he sends silent prayers up to whoever may be listening, silent prayers and silent apologies.

He has failed to save Dorian from the beginnings; perhaps he can save him from the end.

He considers refusing to let Dorian keep the painting.

He relents.

He fails. 

There is nothing much he can do concerning Lord Henry. The man seems hell-bent on speaking to Dorian; not for the first time, Basil wonders, with a flash of jealousy, whether his interest is not so different from Basil's own. No, he thinks, whatever Henry wants with the boy, it can be nothing so all-consuming as Dorian has become to Basil.

Whenever he can, Basil intervenes. He extends invitations for dinner, for tea, for a stroll around the city whenever possible; he schedules showings of his paintings that Dorian feels obligated to attend. He might feel guilty for obstructing their budding friendship, were it not that he happens to know exactly how it turned out—

Dorian, lost.

Sybil Vane, and who knows else, dead.

Basil, bleeding out on an attic floor.

He blocks out the images when he can, and at night, he lays beneath the lattice moonlight woven across his ceiling, and weeps for his memory. For Dorian, drowned in his own desires and despair; for himself, and his bleeding heart, and his broken path; for this life, this strange do-over riddled with deja vu. 

He could not stop Dorian from falling to ruin.

He could not stop himself from finishing the painting.

He could not stop Henry from introducing corruption to the young man's soul.

What, then, can he stop?

"My dear boy," he says, as they sit in his parlor, sipping tea, "I really do think we should talk about Lord Henry."

"About Harry?" Dorian questions. "Whatever for?"

He hesitates. "He puts ideas in your head, and I fear not all of them are good. I worry about you."

"I'm perfectly fine," his companion laughs. "I am better than ever, in fact. Do not worry yourself, Basil, I do not take everything our friend says as gospel, you know."

"I fear you take too much of it."

Dorian shifts in his seat, and Basil studies him. His face, still painted with the joy of innocence; his eyes, now glazed ever so slightly with a wonder several inches off from the sort they once held.

"He is very philosophical," says Basil, quietly, "and he is very clever, but that doesn't mean he is wise."

"Maybe not in all matters," Dorian agrees. "His own misfortunate situation may blind him to the joys of love—but come now, Basil, he has many wise things to say."

"If wise things come with the price of your happiness," Basil returns, "then maybe it is not such a good idea to be wise."

"My happiness?" Dorian throws back his head and laughs; it is not a cruel sound, but Basil shivers anyway, instinct carved from a darker place, a memory. "My dear, I am happier than I have ever been. I daresay I am more _myself_ than I have ever been."

"Are you!" cries Basil, perhaps too vehemently. "You never cared for the loss of your youth before meeting Henry. Look at you; you have never been so miserable." He searches Dorian for a sign of the turmoil he knows lurks beneath, but sees nothing save a faint grimace that plays on his perfect lips; no faded bruises ringing his eyes from sleepless nights, no creases on his brow from hours spent thinking too much, too hard.

"Everyone must be miserable sometimes, to be truly happy," Dorian insists, after a wavering moment of silence, and Basil must admit that he is not wrong. "I was never miserable before because I knew too little of the world."

"And what do you know of the world now?" Basil snaps; in his mind's eye, the alternate Dorian blooms, with his icy eyes and his piercing laugh, with that twitching mania in his narrow fingers.

Basil hisses out a breath. "You—know— _nothing_."

The younger man blinks at him, and his pink lips slip open in shock, in unconcealed hurt.

Regret blooms, deep in the pit of his stomach. "I'm sorry," he says, as quickly as he can, but the damage has been done. "I . . . did not mean that, you know I didn't."

"Why," says Dorian, slowly, searchingly, "do you say such things? You are Henry's friend. You never seemed to have any problem with him before we met." His pale eyes are unfathomable, but Basil catches the tremble in his fingers, ever so slight.

This, he reminds himself, is not the Dorian from the attic; this Dorian knows _nothing_ of the Dorian in the attic. This Dorian is not to blame.

Basil draws in a breath. "Henry . . . is my friend, which is to say we know each other intimately, and often share the other's company. But . . ."

"You dislike him." Dorian narrows his eyes, not in contempt, but in realization. 

"I . . . disagree with him, on many subjects." He exhales again, sharply, and stands from his seat to pace the length of the room, while Dorian remains seated, watching him. "We are very different men. One of the subjects we disagree on happens to be . . . well, you."

"Me?" Dorian echoes. He leans forward, so his forearms brace on his knees, so his frilled collar flutters open with the movement to reveal a stretch of ivory skin.

Basil averts his eyes. "I do not agree with the philosophies he instills in you. They make me worry for your wellbeing."

"Yes, so you've said. It seems you'll do anything to keep Harry from me." A laugh, but more nervous, thoughtful than amused, as Dorian leans back again, and the halo of his hair spills out against the back of the chaise. "Is that not so?"

"No," Basil protests, weakly. "It's true that I'd rather he not speak with you so very often—"

"Is that what this is?" Dorian's eyes gleam. He tips his head, to view the room sideways. 

Basil halts in his pacing, to glance over his shoulder. "Is what what this is?"

"You'd rather he not speak with me _so very often_ ," Dorian repeats. "Are you quite possibly _jealous_ , Basil?"

He averts his gaze, and studies the window intently. The gentle pour of sunlight through the glass, like brushstrokes through the dust-warmed air. "I don't see why I'd be jealous of you. I see Harry often enough, too often I sometimes think."

"Not of me." He cannot help but turn at the sound of Dorian shifting, forward once more, to lean toward Basil in dawning realization. "Of _Henry_."

"Well, I—I can't saw why you'd think that—" He breaks off, his pulse a wild throb through his fragile veins, as Dorian stands, and strides forward.

"Basil," he says, ever so gently, "my dear Basil, there is no need to be envious. You may disapprove of Henry's influence, but I assure you, you needn't disapprove of my relationship with him."

"I really don't know what you mean, Dorian," he says, honestly, and swallows to erase the tingle of the spaces carved between them, the charge of the honey-sweet afternoon air.

Dorian shifts closer and takes his hands, presses them between his own. Their fingers curl together, warm and slender marble-pale against cool, trembling callouses.

He swallows again, sharply, and feels Dorian's gaze follow it down his throat, to where it vanishes below his shirt collar. He thinks of the cold, crisp night when he released the gate of his heart and let it all flow it—the swell of emotion, the width and depth and fire of fury of his love, his _worship_ —and had received the sort of response one expects of an invitation to some mildly interesting gathering: curious, amused, but entirely unrequited.

He does not hope.

He knows better.

"The truth is, Basil," says Dorian, and their gazes pierce each other, misted with the silver glaze of unspoken words and unfelt time, "I much prefer you."

"Do you?" he says, shakily.

Dorian smiles, a soft, faint curl of his pearl lips. "I do."

He forces himself to tear his eyes away, to look instead at their intertwined hands, to will down the beads of sweat that prick beneath the skin of his palms. 

~~This is not the Dorian from the attic.~~

~~This Dorian might allow him to hope.~~

~~He does not hope.~~

He closes his eyes, instead, and allows the will of the universe, the will of Dorian, to shape the next few moments—for what else has he ever done? A painter, a silent lover, nothing but a scribe of the beauty caught in his eyes. He is not a sculptor of his own fate.

Dorian's breath brushes his lips, with the scent of the tea they'd shared, the whisper of his perfume.

The hands clasped in his loosen, and when he opens his eyes, Dorian has backed up, fastened his coat to the top button. "I will see you tomorrow, Basil," he says, without meeting his gaze.

The painter smiles, and his fingers tremble, tremble with the weight of cool skin against their own, of smooth fingertips between their knuckles. "Tomorrow, Dorian," he says, and on his tongue, like once before, like so long ago, like a time that he supposes is now, or once was—on his tongue, the name tastes like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *to the tune of "Sleep"* Three cheers for tyranny, erratically scheduled fic posting!!


	5. Enter Sibyl Vane, Bitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the theater. Dorian isn't the only one who's in for a bad day.  
> Basil does his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the dialogue in this chapter is reworded or paraphrased from the original, so I can't claim it as mine.

Smoke wreathes around the grand room, its twisting shapes more reminiscent of phantoms than anything else Basil can quite put his finger on. Henry exhales, and another breath of gray plumes from the tip of his cigar. Where Henry and Dorian go, he tries to go, to mitigate the effects of the former's influence; of course, he is not always successful, but finds comfort in his attempts nonetheless.

At the window, Dorian turns, and there is a light in his eyes that borders on feverish, a blush to his cheeks that makes Basil want to look away. "I'd almost forgotten what I came to tell you!" he cries, and claps his hands together, like a child. "I am in love."

Henry arches a dark brow. "Are you, now!"

"Yes," says Dorian, dreamily, "with an actress. Her name is Sibyl Vane."

_This is new,_ Basil thinks; he remembers, of course, poor Sibyl, but the circumstances of the reveal are different—so many little things are different that his memories slip, shimmer with shades of variance. 

He forgets so many things about his other life, his first life. Maybe it is for the best.

"An actress," Henry repeats, with another long drag of his cigar. Basil struggles not to cough in its wake. "Well, that is hardly the worst you could do."

"Hardly the worst!" Dorian echoes. He strides forward, and throws his hands up, only to clasp them together as though a speechmaker might, in a moment of practiced passion. "Don't insult her like that, Henry; Sibyl is the loveliest girl I have ever laid eyes on, I am sure."

"I don't insult her; I've loved many an actress, and I know very well that they make good lovers—lovely ones, to use your word—but they are nothing more than lovers."

"You are so cynical, Harry." Dorian sighs. "She is much more than lovely—she's a very talented actress. There is no woman more splendid to love than a talented actress, I think."

"And they must beautiful, or they would never be let on the stage," Henry agrees.

"Really, Harry," says Dorian, with a touch of crossness, and spins to Basil. "You would like my Sibyl," he assures him, and now his voice threads with something like pleading. "Do take my side, Basil, I don't think I can handle an argument."

"An argument!" Henry laughs. "There are no sides, silly Dorian."

Basil swallows, glances down at his own laced fingers. He remembers the ghostlike touch of Dorian's hands, curled around his own, and the taste of his breath too close for comfort: _I much prefer you._

"I'm sure I would like her," he manages, "if you do."

"Of course I do—I love her," the younger man asserts, and his lips quirk upwards, in a smile so genuine that it twists Basil's heart to see.

He has no right to be jealous, he reminds himself; he is no better than a scorned admirer, a pretty thing on the side who has received neither Dorian's lips nor his affection, at least not in the entirety with which he desires.

Desire, he thinks, is a strange word.

"Well, that is all for the better," Henry cuts in, and the smoke curls around him, almost cloaking him from view. "I always think one's first love should be one to remember."

"First love? She is my one and only love; I think I have made that clear."

"Oh, I don't think you as shallow as to fall in love only _once_ , my dear Dorian. You are a deeper creature than that; you are too in love with being in love to bind yourself to disappointment."

For a split second, Dorian looks disgruntled, but it quickly flickers away. "Harry, you do disgust me sometimes. Sibyl could never disappoint me."

Henry says, with a slight shrug, "A woman will always lead to disappointment, if you stay for too long."

At last, Basil decides, he has had enough. "Let us talk of something else," he offers.

"No, no, I'm not finished yet!" Dorian cries. "Basil, Harry, you must see her act. Then, you will understand—she is enchanting on the stage, you simply _must see her act_."

Basil bites his lip, and is entirely too aware that Dorian's gaze is on the motion. Lord Henry answers before he can.

"If you insist. Theater can be trifling, but amusing in small doses—I don't see why not."

"Hmm," says Dorian, and then, "Basil?"

He takes a breath to steel his nerves. He alone knows what is to come; he alone might be able to stop it. "I will come."

***

This time, as Dorian gazes out at the now-vacant stage with an equally empty look in his eyes, Basil does not interrupt.

He lets Dorian lament the loss of his Sibyl's skills; he lets Henry attempt to console him with affirmations of her beauty, with suggestions that they leave. Did he speak the first time, he wonders?—Surely he must have; surely he soothed Dorian, or tried to, to the best of his ability.

He remains silent, until Dorian at last breaks and cries, "Go away, Harry. Leave me alone; my heart is breaking. Go away."

Lord Henry leaves, with a glance back at Basil, a warning glance.

Basil stays, and looks at Dorian's hands, white as they grip the edges of his seat, and wonders what would happen if he held them.

The third act is a blur, a fiasco. Dorian seems to sink only deeper into his misery; the moment it ends, he leaps from his seat. 

"Go now, Basil," he calls, over his shoulder, "go home, I must speak to Sibyl."

"No," says Basil, firmly—"you go home, too. Let it rest. Speak to her tomorrow, or next time, and perhaps the performance will be better then."

He knows it will not.

"I must see her," Dorian insists. "I must see _why_."

Basil dares to reach out, to brush his fingers against Dorian's sleeve. "Not alone," he murmurs.

Dorian hesitates. "Then come."

They find the girl in the greenroom, her face alight in an ecstasy so perfectly averse to Dorian's poorly masked despair. They exchange words, most of which are lost to Basil.

He hears " _ill"_ and _"I believed in everything"_ and _"you taught me what reality really is"_ and when Dorian draws himself up, only to throw himself upon the sofa and exclaim, "You have killed my love"—

That is when he intervenes.

"Listen," he says, with more sharpness than intended. Sibyl's eyes snap to him, but she says nothing. "That is enough, Dorian. You are overreacting, and you are hurting her."

But Dorian averts his eyes, and they settle on Sibyl, who blinks in confusion, in growing pain. "I am not overreacting, Basil, she has killed my loved—you _have_ killed my love." He spins back to the girl, his eyes flashing. "It was your acting that made me love you; it was the way you spun words, and captured emotion; it was your intellect and understanding of someone else's joy and pleasure and pain—and now there is none of it!"

"Dorian, she was only trying to have her own joy and pleasure and pain," says Basil, with an attempt at a gentle tone.

"Well, she has brought only pain to _me_!" Dorian snaps, rounding on him. "I don't love her anymore; I've explained myself. I don't want to think of her."

"You can't mean that!" Sibyl cries, before Basil can. She flings herself before Dorian, and the painter's poor heart wrenches at the sight; before he can stop himself, he thinks: _we are one and the same, we are two of a kind._

"You—you can't mean that," she repeats. Tears prick at her eyes. "I can be better—I can improve my acting, you were right, I should have performed better, I see that now—"

Dorian steps back, and his eyes are cold, and his feature are distant, distant in their mask of perfection.

Basil cannot help but flinch.

"Goodbye, Sibyl," says Dorian, quietly. "Come on, Basil, I am leaving."

He sweeps out without a backward glance, leaving Sibyl crouched on the ground before where he once stood, with a sob in her throat. 

Basil hesitates.

The young actress looks up, and there is misery written across her face—lovely indeed, just as lovely as Dorian said. "Will you be cruel to me, too?" she says, and her eyes pierce him. "Will you be cruel as the man I loved?"

He kneels down, tentatively, and takes out his handkerchief to dry her tears. "I am sorry that he was cruel. I have no intention of making it worse."

"I loved him," she sobs, and clutches at the fabric. He relinquishes it. "I loved him, and I tried to show him—"

"I know," he murmurs. "I understand."

She glances up; perhaps something in the brokenness of his voice, the rasp in his throat, gives him away. "You do?"

"I do."

He helps her stand, and she wobbles slightly, but braces herself against him, still trembling. "You will be all right," he promises her, and dares to stroke a hand through her disheveled hair. "It hurts, but you will be all right."

"I am nothing without my acting," she sniffs. "And I can never act without thinking of him now."

"You are _not_ nothing without your acting!" he cries. "I don't know you, but I do know that! You are a whole person, just as I am without my art."

"You are an artist?" she says, hesitantly.

"A painter." 

She draws her arms close to her body, folded across her breast. "Tell me of your painting, then," she orders, but her voice holds less command and more plea.

And he does.

And when the night has grown much older, and he slips out of the theater with a tear-stained handkerchief clutched in his hands, he can do nothing but hope it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To fridge or not to fridge, that is the question! All I have to say is this: be cautious when placing your faith in such a fickle creature as a fic writer.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been some time since I've read the book, so please bear with any inconsistencies. I intend to continue this, stay tuned!  
> ~Til
> 
> (feel free to scream at me on tumblr @definitely-not-a-murderer. All I do is rant about classics and gush about MCR)


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